Please
by tere moto the sentry
Summary: One shot. Two friends mourn the loss of another, but Chum Chum is convinced this loss need not be permanent.


Disclaimer: "Fanboy and Chum Chum" belongs to Eric Robles and Nickelodeon.

**Please**

Not all masks were literal. The youngest of the trio had never had such a good grasp on symbolism before, but he now realized that all three of them—Fanboy, Chum Chum, and Kyle—had worn masks.

Kyle's mask was just one that could not be seen.

Chum Chum understood this now, as he pressed himself against his remaining best friend, who shuddered with the aftermath of a crying spell. Kyle was always bitter towards the other two, but Fanboy and Chum Chum had always seen that beyond this façade was a lonely kid who ached for their companionship.

So they made sure to give it to him. They made it a point to spend time with him; he turned them away but he had proven more than once that he wanted them. Granted they got reckless and unintentionally destructive, and he resorted (and was sometimes too quick to resort) to magical or otherwise supernatural violence; there were some unwise choices on either side, but unsupervised children could make some _very_ unwise choices.

Such as the one that led to this predicament, a life cut short by carelessness and far too much confidence. And now the poor child's two dearest friends spent their days comforting each other, minds lost in loving memories of shiny red hair and beautiful buck teeth. They longed for that wonderful smile they could bring to his face, and each of the living members of the trio searched the other's face everyday for a smile to at least partially satisfy that hunger.

But though smiling was near impossible at that time, only one of them was sobbing over the loss. The younger child, a determined fire in his eyes, had resolved to shed no tears over his fallen comrade until he was certain that his buddy was gone for good.

The elder one rocked back and forth with intermittent shivering, convinced that his junior had lost his mind to denial, but allowing him to continue believing. Perhaps it was good for him for now. Perhaps he had to learn in his own way. Still, the grieving one's misery missed its company.

"We can bring him back!" More powerful words could not have come from the small child's lips, but they were spoken to a heart that had surrendered long before. Thus was the start of a regular routine; the little one had started brandishing the Necronomicon, shoving it in front of his companion's forlorn face as often as possible. "Maybe it's not too late yet. He died by magic that left his body in the right condition."

He looked up pleadingly at his friend's face. The taller boy had stopped wearing his mask, and the shorter boy could now see puffy red eyes sporting visible tear stains.

"I can't." He wrapped his cape around his slender body and leaned against the exquisite armrest. Ever since the accident, he had spent his days at Kyle's house and nights at the Fanlair. And wherever he was, both he and Chum Chum knew he was welcome, this was home; whatever made him comfortable, whatever helped, there now, don't cry.

Of course, that last part was just a formality; he had to cry. He now pressed himself against the red sofa, away from it all. "We can't bring him back. _I_ can't bring him back."

But the smaller kid pressed on. "We can do it; you can do it. Please, there might still be time. Please, we have to try."

"No, I_ can't,_" the other weakly pushed the Necronomicon away. "I—I'm not a wizard."

"Yes you are! I know you are! I believe in you! Plea—"

"No, I'm…I'm a _play wizard._"

"I _know_ you impressed him the day you met, buddy. You were both wizards. We have to be strong—that's what superheroes do."

"I'm n-_not_ a s-superhero." A fresh spell of sobs and shudders.

The little one reached out to his friend. The sight of him falling apart made it that much harder to stay stoic.

"_I'm not a wizard." "I'm not a superhero."_ He seemed so doubtful—had he always been this way? Had his little friend never noticed?

"We can do this." He rubbed his companion's back. "I always believed in you. _He_ always believed in you."

Sniffles. A trembling lip.

"_You_ know you can do it."

A residual tear fell. Furrowed brows.

"It's okay, it's okay…We'll do it together. Please."

Consideration. _Reassurance._

A thoughtful gaze. _A nod. An open book._

He swallowed hard as a wand was placed encouragingly into his left hand.

"I never told you—or him," he wiped his eyes dry to ensure he could read the Necronomicon. "I wanted the three of us to grow up together."

The sidekick placed a hand on his arm. "We still can, Kyle."

He grinned, and Kyle mirrored his face, and they set to work.

Proceeded with the energetic hope that they would soon see Fanboy's smile again too.

Author's Note: You probably thought Kyle was the one dead, hmm? I don't think we've yet learned Fanboy's official hair color, so he could have "shiny red hair" too. This story was inspired by two fics (outside of the FBCC fandom), but I'm afraid that mentioning which ones might spoil someone's story.


End file.
